


Fire

by icylook



Series: Vergil Surana [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood and Injury, Circle of Magi, Gen, brief mentions of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 19:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20935754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icylook/pseuds/icylook
Summary: His own healing attempts were even more shittier than fire spells.





	Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I got inspired by one of the prompts of the 30 days of OC challenge on tumblr. I don't think I'll make them all, but I find some of the prompts inspirational, along with reading the works of others writing the challenge for their OCs :D
> 
> Some timeline to clear - Vergil's 7 when he's brought to the Circle, and in this fic begins with him being 11, then 13 and Blight times :>

His fingers look like something chewed and spit them out after it got bored. He can't straighten them properly without pain, the skin's burned nearly raw by now.

It hurts, of course it hurts.

After so many tries he still _can't_ do it right without harming himself in the process. He lets out a shaky breath.

Basic spell.

They are to learn a basic spell. One he just can't grasp properly. But, before the practice of magic, there was the theory, so much theory. Reading still was something he struggled with, but four years in the tower and endless classes were bearing fruit. Past few months his writing got much better, but only because he was too stubborn to improve it after one too many quips and comments about his inadequacy. It didn't matter that he was given the chance and supplies to learn _after_ he was brought to the Circle. A weakness is a weakness, something others can pick on as a distraction from themselves. Small things here are the most important to be wary of, he learnt that fast through the years.

The class started as usual, as the mage instructor ordered them to finally put the theory into practice and shown them how to do it, step by step. It isn't the first lesson in practical magic, but he still can't grasp the spell like he should.

It doesn't come to him, the focus on fire, as easily as the frost does. Ice is natural, it constantly sits at the tips of his fingers, ready to come out with a flick of a thought, but he isn't allowed to conjure it. He has to _make fire and hold it_, that's what the exercise is about. Follow the instructions and bring out the spark with magic. But he struggles with it every time to the point, he burns himself when the spark becomes too much to hold and he loses control, and it mercilessly bites at his fingers.

Again and again, splitting his skin, turning the pale flesh bloody.

He feels the tears of frustration prick at the corners of his eyes, quickly blurring his vision.

If he only was allowed to exercise with ice.

Who needs the stupid fire anyway? There are other ways to start fire, non magical, and why would he even use it. For lightning _candles? _

He looks up from his tortured hands, longer strands of his black fringe coming into his eyes. The mage instructor's correcting someone about their spell. Pronouncing the words right, using the proper incantation with _intent_ and pull from the Fade. They had to learn and repeat the words for so many lessons.

And that was stupid as well. Why does he have to tell the words, when he can cast _without_ saying anything? He only needs to _focus_. But, he was reprimanded about that already and _encouraged_ to follow the teachings.

He still practices his magic without words when he knows he wouldn't be caught, but when he's like this in the open, he says the learned formulas. Or more like murmurs them. Spells never feel right then and they often backfire, costing more energy to hold them. He glances to the right feeling eyes on him, meeting dispassionate gaze of a templar watching over the class. He looks for a moment longer, seeing how the cold eyes of their guardian stare back at him, then slowly take in his scrawny form, huddled on a chair too big for him. There's a faint clink of an armor when the templar changes his stance, but doesn't move from the spot, merely staring back again.

He can't exactly stop the shiver when he quickly looks away, the faint curl of his fingers bringing spikes of fresh, dull pain. He sniffs wetly, trying again to concentrate on the spell. It's even harder than before and when the mage instructor finally comes to see his progress, he ends up being scolded, but thankfully without some stupid task as a punishment, and is told to get the salve for his wounded hands from the infirmary. He's allowed to go alone and breathes a bit easier, when he disappears from the sight of those unsettling eyes, letting his shoulders drop, when he knows he's alone.

* * *

There's a vice grip on his wrist and the mage instructor hisses almost directly into his ear, her voice clipped, light blue eyes widened a bit too much for only anger, splotchy pink spots appearing on her cheeks and neck. She's more twitchy than usual and Vergil stares back at her, steadfast, and bits his lip, doesn't say anything, his silence only spurring her tirade. If she grips him any tighter, she could snap one of the delicate bones in his wrist, and he winces briefly, when he tries to move away, but her fingers nearly claw into his skin.

By now they were practicing all kinds of elemental spells, and he discovered his affinity to lightning beside the ice.

Two years of the practice of this particular spell and his hands are less hurt than at the beginning, when he tries to conjure the fire with the way they teach them. But Vergil still has the problem with holding it without being burnt _at all._

And now, he did something a student supposedly _shouldn't_ have. He could swear it was an accident, but it wasn't, not really. He didn't think it _would_ work like that. The first few tries of conjuring the fire up ended the same way as usual for him and in his growing disappointment at the failure, he thought about how the salve would feel on his fingers again (they rarely bothered with healing spells, plus, his own healing attempts were even _more_ shittier than fire spells), and how he'd have to use it along with few strips of elfroot soaked bandages for next weeks, until the next spell practice.

And how he'd prefer to practice his own spells, the little things he thought of and brought out when unsupervised, sneaking the bits of things he read about in the books no one really looked twice at, because they were too complicated and useless and no one really needed them.

But it brought him here, with a crushing clutch on his wrist, a furious mage instructor and a templar, nearing on them, clearly interested in the commotion.

Ther was a drop of blood on the tip of his finger where the skin was scorched worst.

It happened, when he abruptly dropped the spell and it turned back to a bigger than usual spark of _regular_ fire, just as the mage instructor grasped him, taking him by surprise.

Because Vergil was mesmerised, when he saw the colour turn from yellowish orange to white to nearly teal and blue.

Colour of lyrium.

The flame kept steady, so different than the normal one, and when it licked his fingers, it was cool, like the soothing feel of frost. His mouth opened in fascinated smile upon the discovery, eyes glowing with almost childish like giddiness, until his simple mirth was shattered with sudden movement and angry words spitted in low voice.

He was startled and hurt himself worse than usual and the blood happened.

Vergil felt his veins freeze, when he glances at the drop, hearing the clink of an armor, moving closer, _closer_.

He thinks about covering it somewhat, but he can't move much with his hand held in a grip, close to losing his nerve and crying out to be _let go right now,_ hearing bits of the mage instructor's words, spewing about _"irresponsible behaviour"_, _"dangerous experiments"_ and "_what was he thinking with conjuring that in a class full of other students"_.

There's a flurry of movement to his left, as someone bumps into the mage instructor and his wrist is free, throbbing with dull pain.

Vergil smells the sharp hint of ozone, feeling his wounds closing, a tingly sensation washing over the skin of his hands, and he sees dark eyes of a boy, who's now apologising about his clumsiness, _but he absolutely had to ask the mage instructor something about his own spell casting, and had to do it now, and as he couldn't get her attention earlier, he decided to come over and tripped in a hurry, and if the mage instructor could help him with the spell now, please._

He catches the eye of the boy, easily deciphering the mouthed words of _"you owe me"_, and grits his teeth when he holds the gaze with his own amber eyes, narrowing them in silent fury. There's a quick smirk on the pale face with those dark eyes, before the templar is upon them, asking what's the matter and, after some confused explanations later, Vergil is left with only a task as a punishment.

He spends the long monotonous hours of cleaning the old supplies storage thinking on motives of his unexpected saviour in the person of one and the only Florian Phineas Horatio Aldebrant.

Finn.

Vergil hates surprises. And being in debt of a snotty arrogant noble child? Even more.

* * *

Darkspawns catch fire easily, maybe even easier than animated corpses. The tricky part is to get them _on_ fire big enough to drop dead and not rush at the party when _being_ on fire. The darkspawns smell awful normally, and Vergil would like to avoid inhaling the fumes of their scorched flesh, as they would spread the fire in chaotic attack.

Regular use of mage fire is Morrigan's speciality, but since Vergil discovered his ability to conjure the other kind of flame anew, and work into perfecting it without interruptions, in his own ways, well.

Time to bring it onto the field, he thinks as he wordlessly calls the blue white flames, and lets them spread over his arm, their cool sensation feeling like water directly on his skin, despite the armor and gloves.

"Doesn't it hurt?" Alistair sounds worried as he glances at Vergil's arm, bracing himself for the fight beside him. He nervously steps away to the side, when he sees the flames getting bigger as Vergil prepares for a throw.

"No."

Vergil flexes his arm and throws the flames like a whip and they catch on the rags and pieces of armor the blighted creatures wear, expanding immediately. The enraged, wounded shrieks are piercing and stop the attackers for a moment, disorienting them and giving the pause needed for Warden's attack.

The arrows from Leliana and Zevran's bows hit their marks and few bodies drop crippled to the ground.

"You said it doesn't hurt!"

"It doesn't!" Vergil turns to look at Alistair, just before he launches another whip-like attack with blue flames, and he sounds cheery, but his smile has too many teeth to be called friendly.

"Not me."


End file.
